Free Ormerod's Landing by Leslie Thomas Page B

here! And quick!'
    Ormerod stood his ground. The rain was licking his forehead. His very soul felt damp. 'No,' he challenged. 'You come here.'
    The marine sergeant could not credit it. He had gone purple in the dark afternoon. Then an internal brake seemed to be suddenly released and he strutted at Ormerod like a puff-chested bird. As the two men seemed about to collide the drill sergeant came to a stamping stop two feet away. He was the same height as Ormerod and he glared vividly into the policeman's tired eyes.
    'You are walking across our parade ground!' snarled the NCO. 'You realize that? On the parade ground!'
    'Fuck off,' suggested Ormerod quietly. He thought: God I hope they do put me in a cell, then I won't have to go. 'Go on,
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    fuck off,' he repeated walking past the NCO. He continued his slow amble across the square until he came to the door marked 'No Admittance' and he went in.
    He could hear the expected commotion on the barrack square behind him but nothing worried him now. He felt as if his body had entered a tight capsule, that his existence, and the things he did, had no bearing on the real and normal world, even if there were any longer such a thing. He entered into the last room along the corridor, knocked and went in without waiting for an answer. He did not feel in the mood for waiting for answers.
    There was a girl in an ATS tunic sitting at a desk writing on various sheets of paper. She looked up briefly. Ormerod said : 'My name's Ormerod. I've been told to come here.'
    'Yes,' she said succinctly. 'Will you please wait. In a few moments you will be attended to.'
    Attended to! Christ, it sounded like a dog being brought into a vet's for doctoring! They were attending to him all right. All of them. Here he was going off to risk his life - no, more than that, probably give his life - on some dreamlike mission and they gave him rhubarb and fucking custard and a mouthful of abuse. There was a knock at the door. The girl did not look up from the desk so Ormerod defiantly said: 'Come in.' He had a feeling it was for him. He was right.
    The parade ground sergeant was there stiff and puce in the face like a piece of frozen fruit, and with him was the young officer, now obviously embarrassed, who had called him after lunch.
    'Been telling tales?' Ormerod mocked the drill sergeant. He mimicked. 'Sir, that naughty man walked right across our nice clean parade ground.' He glared at the sergeant as a rebellious boy might regard the school sneak. Both the officer and the NCO opened their mouths but Ormerod got in first again. 'Listen chaps,' he said with deep disdain. 'Since I'm just about to be pushed off to trespass on enemy-occupied-bloody-Europe, I'm not all that worried about trespassing on your manky parade ground.'
    With that he closed the door in their rigid and astonished faces. To his surprise the uniformed girl at the desk suddenly
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    jumped up, called him a fool and opened the door again. She went outside with the two complainants and Ormerod sat down, deflated and sick. Who was she to call him a fool?
    Within two minutes she was back, giving the impression that she had given the military pair short shrift. She was small and neat with dark tidy hair and notable eyes. 'How in God's name could you do that?' she demanded.
    'What? Walk across their parade ground?'
    'No. You shouted about going to Europe. Are you mad or something?'
    'Everybody else knows,' he shrugged. 'The submarine crew know for a start. I wouldn't be surprised if Hitler himself didn't know by now. And, if you don't mind, don't call me a fool. I may be one - in fact I think I am one - but I don't like being called one. Who am I waiting for anyway? Nobody tells me anything.'
    'Mr Ormerod, you are waiting for me,' she said briskly, returning to the desk and sitting down. 'I am Marie-Thérèse Velin. We are in this together.'
    His jaw slackened. He half rose from the chair. 'You ...' he began. 'You're the girl? The agent?'
    'I am,' she said